


there's no place like

by lyricalprose (fairylights)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s06e02 Two and a Half Men, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairylights/pseuds/lyricalprose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dashboard is coated with a layer of dust. </p><p>Dean hasn't been home in a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's no place like

  
  
There's a layer of dust coating the dashboard, and when he opens the driver's side door it creaks even more than it used to, ringing out loud in the confined space of the garage.  
  
The air inside the car is stale and dusty. It doesn't smell anything like it used to – greasy food, old leather, whiskey, blood, Sam, _home_ – but the seat gives under his weight just like it always has. The steering wheel fits his hands as perfectly as ever, his fingers resting right in the grooves where his fingers have gripped it nearly every single day for well over a decade.  
  
He lets go of the wheel and looks at the keys resting in the palm of his hand. They've been sitting in a toolbox for a year and he's _missed_ them, missed this car like it's a phantom limb. He still isn't used to not feeling the weight of these keys in his pocket, isn't used to stepping _up_ into his truck, isn't used to looking down on the road from above as he drives instead of melting into it, level with the asphalt.  
  
He fits the key into the ignition and turns it, and the roar of the engine coming to life feels like a hand unclenching around his throat, like air rushing into his lungs after not being able to breathe.  
  
  


\---

  
  
  
He's sitting at a stoplight on his way out of town and it still feels surreal, all of it – leaving but not leaving, the familiar rumble of the car under him, Sam's unfamiliar number in his cellphone. He reaches into the box of tapes that he's put on the passenger seat, fishes around and pulls one out at random, slips it in the player and feels almost guilty when the opening bars of _Fire of Unknown Origin_ come on and he can't help smiling.  
  
The radio in his truck doesn't work. Even if it did, he's not sure he would've used it. It doesn't have a cassette player and he hates trying to filter through all the hip-hop and easy listening on the airwaves to find a decent radio station.  
  
He makes it about five miles on the highway with the engine opened up, letting the world know that this car is _alive,_ before he's singing along.  
  
Just under his breath, you know.  
  
  


\---

  
  
  
He drives a hundred miles west, just to _drive,_ before he pulls off the road in Champaign, Illinois and calls Sam. He's on his way to a case in Cedar Rapids, but for now he's in Springfield. They arrange to meet halfway, in a crappy diner in some suburb of Decatur that they both remember from a case in the area, a few years back. It's called the Blue Pine Cafe and it has the shittiest coffee Dean's ever tasted – which unfortunately he'd forgotten until after he ordered a cup.  
  
Sam doesn't keep him waiting long, sliding into the seat on the other side of the booth not five minutes after Dean sits down. He's fixing him with a _look_ and doesn't say anything for a minute. Dean stares right back, holding Sam's eyes in this grown-up version of every staring contest they've had since Sam was five.  
  
Sam loses this time, knocking his hands on the table and looking away as he says, "So you're back in, then."  
  
"You could call it that."  
  
"Saw the car in the parking lot." Sam's still looking at him searchingly, eyes tracking across Dean's face as though maybe what he's looking for is hidden somewhere between his eyes and his upper lip.  
  
"Yep." It sounds as nonchalant as he can possibly make it. "Not ridin' in your little bitch of a car, that's for damn sure."  
  
He expects Sam to make a face and defend his pansy-ass vehicle. But he just smiles and even _laughs_ under his breath a little and Dean doesn't know what to do with that.  
  
He doesn't really know what to do with _Sam_ yet, to be honest – who seems exactly the same and completely different simultaneously, like he's Sam shifted slightly to the right or the left, turned to a different volume or on a different wavelength or something. He's still identifiably _Sam._ But Dean feels like he doesn't know him yet.  
  
It's almost completely dark outside and they've turned the nighttime lights on inside the diner, blinding fluorescents clashing horribly with what's left of the natural light coming in through the windows. Dean takes a quick drink of his coffee and lets the bitter taste coat the inside of his mouth.  
  
It's awful, and he kind of wants to spit it back into his cup. But he doesn't. He lets the bitterness slide all the way down his throat, and then he drains the rest of the mug for good measure. It's bracing, and as he sets the mug down on the table and looks Sam in the eye it feels like gears shifting in his head, turning over and readjusting as he slots back into familiar patterns.  
  
His keys are in his pocket and Sam's sitting across from him and it feels like home as he clears his throat and asks, "so what's in Cedar Rapids?"


End file.
